Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  Parker didn’t appear to have noticed anything amiss. He moved forward and his bad eye squinted against the lights. He gestured to Hardin to stand to one side and then used the Taser to push the boys in front of him, the knife held horizontally as if ready to slash the blade across both their throats. The reporter extended her arm further, the microphone like a carrot to tempt a donkey. Parker took another step and the slightest hint of a smile spread on the woman’s face. Except now Savage realised she wasn’t a reporter at all. She was DC Becky Miles from the Covert Operations Unit.

  ‘None of this was my fault,’ Parker said. ‘There has been a catalogue of errors. PC Hardin should have—’

  From out of the black, Savage thought she saw a tiny flash of light, heard an almost indiscernible phut.

  Parker stood still for a moment, a growing circle of blood on his forehead. Savage leapt forward and grabbed Parker’s knife arm, pulling the blade away from the children as he slipped to the floor. One of the boys started screaming and then, from behind the lights, emerged Luke Farrell and a female FLO.

  ‘It’s over,’ Luke said as he and the woman officer gathered up the boys and led them away. ‘Let’s get you back to your mums and dads. They’re waiting over here.’

  Once they’d gone, the TV cameraman stepped from behind his tripod. His jacket slipped open, revealing a chest holster beneath. He moved to Parker and checked for signs of life. He glanced up at Savage and shook his head. Then he made a signal out into the blackness.

  All at once the TV arcs went down to be replaced by a softer glow from a set of lights atop the mobile incident room van. Inspector Nigel Frey, the head of the Force Support Group, stood next to the van alongside Chief Constable Maria Heldon. Savage took a final look at Parker and then she and Hardin walked over.

  ‘Well done, DI Savage,’ Maria Heldon said. ‘Excellent work.’

  ‘Parker,’ Savage said. ‘He never stood a chance, did he?’

  ‘A chance?’ Heldon said. ‘No, we couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘I gave the order to fire as soon as it was safe to do so,’ Frey said. ‘The sniper was off to the left. Twenty metres. The walls to each side of the steps shielded the children. There was no possibility of hitting them. As a backup the cameraman was an armed officer and Becky was there too. The risk to you and the DSupt was minimal.’

  ‘Minimal, yes.’ Savage glanced at Frey. She knew she should thank him – this was the second time Frey and his officers had come to her rescue – but inside she was strangely devoid of emotion. If this was a victory, it was one where the winning came with a price attached. She half smiled at Frey as he walked off towards the house.

  ‘I guess you were right, DI Savage,’ Heldon said. ‘Parker didn’t stand a chance. But we couldn’t let him have one, could we?’

  ‘He wanted to tell his story,’ Savage said. ‘About the minister and what went on here. Will that still come out?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure it will,’ Heldon said. She smiled. ‘Eventually.’

  The Chief Constable turned on her heels and walked away to where an officer held open the door to her car. Savage stood for a moment and then spotted DC Calter standing beside a pool Focus parked at the side of the house. She walked across.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter reached out a hand and touched Savage on the arm. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Savage said. ‘I could do with a lift though.’

  ‘Sure.’ Calter clicked open the driver’s door. ‘To the station?’

  Savage turned back to Woodland Heights. The building stood stark and grey in the glow from multiple sets of lights. Two CSIs were working at the front door where Brenden Parker’s body lay slumped on the steps. Rain had begun to fall and a low wind moaned against the distant cliffs.

  ‘No,’ Savage said as she shivered. ‘Home.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 2nd November. 11.40 a.m.

  It took the best part of the weekend for the meetings, paperwork and debriefs to subside. Savage lost count of the number of forms she had to fill in and the number of statements she had to make and sign. Monday morning, thinking she was at last getting on top of everything, she went to the crime suite to find three officers from the Professional Standards Department poring over an array of documents DS Gareth Collier had laid out for them.

  ‘Vultures,’ Collier whispered as he stood next to Savage. ‘Scavenging for easy pickings.’

  PSD, it turned out, were interested in discovering if mistakes had been made in the Curlew/Lacuna investigations. Their arrival coincided with the news that Angie Hobb was taking legal action against Devon and Cornwall Police and her brief was Amanda Bradley. The lawyer had neatly segued from representing Ned Stone into what could be a nice little earner. She’d linked the historical Curlew case with the present-day Lacuna one and indicated she intended to show gross negligence and/or conspiracy in both. Maria Heldon, in countermove, had self-referred the force to the IPCC. Savage thought it unlikely either the PSD, the IPCC or Amanda Bradley would get anywhere near the truth of what had happened all those years ago.

  ‘The words “shit” and “fan” come to mind.’ Collier took a cloth and scrubbed something from the whiteboard. He stared at the smudge of black he’d made and then wiped again until all remnants of the marker pen had gone. ‘We did our best though, didn’t we?’

  Savage didn’t answer, aware the question was rhetorical, the tone in Collier’s voice enough to show he, at least, didn’t think they had. She wasn’t sure either, but in the end she remembered a maxim her old boss, DCI Walsh, had often used when things had gone wrong: Don’t beat yourself up; it’s the criminals who commit the crimes.

  Who the criminals in the Curlew/Lacuna case were, Savage wasn’t sure. The government minister, obviously. Brenden and Frank Parker, yes – and Parker Senior would be going down for murder. Elijah Samuel? The CPS were talking about charging him for helping Frank Parker to conceal Jason Caldwell’s body, but Savage thought a successful prosecution remote. Ned Stone, a criminal if she’d ever seen one, looked like he was getting off scot-free, for telling Brenden Parker where he could find Perry Sleet was hardly a crime. Bernie Black – Hardin’s old boss – had died years ago so his actions would also go unpunished. Then there was the man from Special Branch. His identity was a mystery and looked likely to remain so. Finally, there was Conrad Hardin. Would the man who’d been at the bottom of the chain of command end up taking the flack? Savage hoped not.

  In the canteen for a late lunch, she found Hardin sitting at a table on his own. A cup of milky coffee stood on the table and the DSupt was dunking a ginger nut as she pulled up a chair, put down her food, and sat.

  ‘Charlotte.’ Hardin looked up and then took a bite of the biscuit. ‘You want a word?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Hardin one-to- one since the events at the home. She poked the tuna salad in front of her with her fork. ‘About last Thursday.’

  ‘Right.’ Hardin finished his biscuit and then took a sip of coffee. He made a face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Chief Constable said she couldn’t take the risk with Brenden Parker. If I was a cynic, I’d say she meant she wasn’t keen to hear what Parker had to say. The end result suited her.’

  ‘You need to understand that the Home Secretary had called her earlier in the day. Impressed upon her the need to handle the incident carefully. The situation was, in all senses of the word, volatile. Still is, to be honest. Apparently the Herald have got wind of something. Dan Phillips is pretty shrewd and I bet it won’t be long before he joins the dots. This isn’t going away, Charlotte, even if some people up in London wish it would.’

  ‘Has Dan got the whole story?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d better ask him.’

  ‘I mean, does he know about the photograph?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Hardin went for another ginger nut. ‘But Heldon knows. And she’s aware I told you.’

&n
bsp; Savage nodded. She moved a piece of lettuce from one side of her plate to the other, not really interested in her food.

  ‘You deceived me, sir. On the phone. There was never any chance the BBC were going to turn up at the children’s home, but I believed you and so did Parker.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you the whole truth, but the deception was necessary.’

  ‘It was clever, sir, I’ll give you that. You offered to give Parker exactly what he wanted all those years ago and he fell for the trick because he simply wanted to be heard.’

  ‘I would have gone up there to save the boys, but he’d have killed both of us. The ploy seemed like the best option.’

  Savage bent to her food. The tuna tasted dry and the coleslaw on the side was tart with vinegar. She gave up and reached for her own coffee as Hardin took another gulp of his. For a moment the noise and bustle of the canteen intruded and then Hardin spoke again.

  ‘You should know that I approved the use of lethal force, Charlotte. Not the Home Office, not the Chief Constable, not Nigel Frey. Parker’s death may have suited others, but the decision was mine. It was the only way to be sure of the boys’ safety.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I let Jason Caldwell and Liam Hayskith down all those years ago. My actions led directly to the deaths of Jason Hobb and Liam Clough.’ Hardin shook his head. He took a handkerchief from his pocket. Savage could see his eyes were laden with moisture. ‘In my mind the risk wasn’t Parker exposing some elite paedophile ring, the risk was that another two boys might die. I couldn’t have their deaths on my conscience, do you understand?’

  Savage thought back to Thursday night. She remembered the boys’ faces as they’d climbed down from the window and again as they’d been returned to their parents. Then she thought, inevitably, of her own children, of how she’d do anything – anything – to protect them from harm.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I guess I do.’

  Riley didn’t return to work until the end of the following week. He tried to enter the crime suite discreetly, but his crutches put paid to that. A rousing cheer went around the room and the regular wags shouted out abuse.

  ‘Hopalong! Jake the Peg!’ The best came from Enders who came across to Riley as he hobbled across to his desk.

  ‘Puts a whole new meaning to your career path, doesn’t it, sir?’ Enders grinned and patted Riley on the back. ‘Fast-tracked, you ain’t!’

  The banter was well meaning and the cheering came with official backing: Maria Heldon was putting Riley forward for a commendation for bravery, his actions almost certainly having saved Perry Sleet’s life. However, when Riley had dropped through the roof of the barn he’d fractured his ankle. Adrenaline had kept him on his feet for long enough to give Sleet first aid for a few minutes, but once medical help arrived, he’d collapsed in agony.

  ‘He’s a lucky boy,’ Enders said once the commotion had died down. Riley sat at a terminal browsing Sleet’s Facebook page. Catherine Sleet had posted some pictures of Sleet in hospital as well as a ‘thank you’ for messages of support. There was another picture of Catherine herself, bedside. ‘Rescued by you, and Mrs Gorgeous to tend to his every need.’

  Sleet had been lucky. His injuries were similar to those Tim Benedict had sustained but, being younger, it looked as if Sleet would pull through. Plus he hadn’t had to endure being stuffed upside down in a wheelie bin.

  Brenden Parker’s actions were plainly those of somebody with serious mental issues, but behind the monster image which the media chose to highlight, there was an explanation, albeit one with considerable controversy attached. Parker, some psychologists were arguing, had a form of dissociative identity disorder, better known as a split or multiple personality. In his time off work, Riley had read up on the subject. As far as he could make out, it was likely Parker’s experience in childhood had caused the affliction. The traumatic events surrounding the death of Jason Caldwell had led to the suppression of some memories and the development of an alternate personality. The death of his mother had caused a complete mental breakdown in Parker and led to the emergence of this alter ego – a new personality intent on punishing the people who had let Parker down in his childhood, even though that included Parker himself. Part of him wanted to expose what had happened at the home and part of him wanted vengeance. Where kidnapping and killing Jason Hobb and Liam Clough came into it, Riley had no idea, but it seemed likely that Parker was trying to recreate some aspect of his childhood. The raft had been part of that too and Parker’s alternate personality had seeded the first one with two chilling artefacts which pointed to a crime having been committed all those years ago: the finger bone and the piece of scalp belonging to Jason Caldwell.

  Later in the morning he tried to explain dissociative identity disorder to Enders, but the DC wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘You’re joking me, sir, aren’t you?’ Enders said. ‘You’re saying none of this was Parker’s fault?’

  ‘No, merely that DID is an explanation for his behaviour.’

  ‘Crap.’ Enders shook his head. ‘It’s the way of the world these days, isn’t it? Always some excuse. Blame this, blame that, but don’t take responsibility for your actions. Doesn’t wash with me. You don’t cut an eleven-year-old boy’s head off and boil it up in a pot because of something that happened in your childhood. You do it because you’re a fucking nasty piece of work. End of.’

  Riley smiled to himself as Enders stomped off, thinking the DC had pretty much nailed it.

  By the weekend the weather was set fine, a light breeze from the north cooling the air, but bringing a blue sky and a strong winter sun. When Pete suggested a trip out on Puffin, Savage jumped at the chance. Jamie was as keen as ever and Samantha perked up when a pub lunch was added into the equation.

  The sail across to Cawsand Bay took an hour, the yacht gliding through a flat sea with Savage at the helm. They dropped anchor and went ashore to eat and then afterwards sat on the beach while Jamie larked around at the water’s edge and Samantha played on her phone. Savage zipped her waterproof up against the cold and leant against Pete.

  ‘OK, love?’ he said, putting his arm around her.

  ‘Sure. Never better than this.’

  ‘No.’ Pete nodded out to where Puffin swung at anchor surrounded by a glittering sea. ‘Who needs exotic places, hey?’

  ‘You miss it, don’t you?’ Savage looked at Pete and shielded her eyes from the sun. ‘The Navy.’

  ‘I’m still in the Navy.’

  ‘You know what I mean. The travel, the ocean.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pete turned back and gestured at Jamie and then Samantha. ‘But it doesn’t mean I’d swap you and the kids for that life again.’

  Savage said nothing. She was touched, but deep within she wondered if Pete was telling the truth. Since he’d relinquished his command, she’d seen a change in her husband. He’d been better with the kids, more sociable, but something was missing inside. A passion, a spark.

  Half an hour later they dinghyed back to the boat and clambered on board. Pete hauled the anchor up while Savage took the helm. They motored out of the bay into the gentle north-easterly.

  ‘We’ll not bother with the sails,’ Pete said. ‘Be tacking back and forth forever to get home.’

  Savage turned to look over her left shoulder. The sun hung above the Cornish shoreline. Dusk was a couple of hours away.

  ‘Can we take a detour?’ Savage said. ‘To Torpoint? We can cut inside Drake’s Island. It’ll only take us twenty minutes.’

  ‘Why …?’ Pete started to ask the question and stopped. ‘Sure. But if we’re on police business then I’ll be submitting an expense form for the diesel.’

  ‘No, not police business.’ Savage stared ahead. Wondered whether she was the one now being dishonest. ‘This is personal.’

  After a few minutes, Savage swung the wheel to port and they passed between Drake’s Island and Cornwall. Not long after, the estuary narrowed and Royal William Yard
appeared on the right and beyond it Mayflower Marina. Now the river opened out on the left, a vast expanse of mudflats, to the north of which lay Torpoint. Savage slowed the boat and studied the mud. Fingers of water had begun to invade the mud as the tide came in. Before her eyes, tiny veins became trickles, became streams.

  ‘I’ll need the dinghy,’ Savage said. ‘You could potter up to the Navy yards and pick me up on the way back.’

  ‘Right …’ Pete cocked his head. ‘Where are you off to then?’

  ‘Ashore.’ Savage pulled the throttle into neutral and the boat slowed. ‘Ten minutes once I get there.’

  ‘And where is there?’

  ‘That.’ Savage pointed to the ramshackle collection of wood which marked Larry the Lobster’s houseboat.

  She killed the outboard motor a few metres from shore and the dinghy drifted in and beached where the mud turned to gravel. She jumped from the dinghy, bowlined the painter to one of the uprights on the gangway which led to Larry’s boat, and walked out. When she reached the end of the walkway, she realised something was different: the space where the pot boat had been tied alongside was now occupied by a small, wooden yacht. The yacht stood nestled in the soft mud but would float once the tide rose. A tap, tap, tap echoed from the innards of the craft.

  ‘Hello!’ Savage stepped onto the houseboat and edged round to the rear. ‘Larry?’

  A mess of tools and cans of paint and varnish lay strewn about the cockpit, along with the innards of what appeared to be a diesel engine. Up on the foredeck, several coils of rope looked new, as did a set of bright white fenders.

  The banging ceased and somebody huffed from below. The steps to the companionway creaked and Larry’s bearded face popped out.

  ‘I knew it be you,’ Larry said. ‘Heard someone on the gangway and said to myself, “It’ll be that Inspector Wotsit.”’